


Two Halves of One

by cloverfield



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: A Dirty Dozen of Prompts, Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, First Aid, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Missing Scene, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outo Country, Post-Series, Slow and Easy, amputee character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverfield/pseuds/cloverfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“One's not half of two; two are halves of one.”<br/>― E.E. Cummings</p><p>Kurogane and Fai in a baker's dozen of porny, loving, stand alone oneshots, as prompted through tumblr. Different worlds, different times, and different themes - but all NSFW. Individual prompts and warnings (if applicable) to be listed in each chapter, with updates coming as they are written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slow and Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for an Anon who requested an emphasis on Kurogane only having one arm, and so I immediately wrote fluffy, sappy, first time smut while Kurogane and Fai were convalescing in Clow.
> 
> Warnings: brief references to canon-typical violence; references to injuries sustained.

“It must be said, Kurogane-san, that I have seen men survive the loss of a limb, or even the loss of two– but I have _never_ seen a man survive the loss of the same limb twice.” Nadeshiko’s voice was firm but kind, and the weight of her words eased by the smile that accompanied them. The Queen of Clow was also her highest-ranking priestess and a powerful mage besides, and her hands were as steady on Kurogane’s bandages as any healer he’d ever known, winding cloth skilfully and clipping it in place with cool efficiency even as magic tingled every place her fingertips touched. “If I had not seen these wounds with my own eyes, I would not believe them. For you to heal so well in so short a time… there must be someone who loves you very much indeed.”

Green eyes, very much like Sakura’s own, twinkled up at him. “Love is _very_ important when it comes to healing, you know.”

Even if one eyebrow was still sore, the scrapes down the side of his face having coloured up and bruised and only starting to fade at last in the past few days, Kurogane’s other eyebrow leapt up of its own accord, and it was a struggle to keep his face still.

“Oh, you can doubt it if you like,” said the other priest in the healer’s wing, the fair-haired one Kurogane knew to be the Crown Prince’s lover; Yukito, who had first sent his princess to the world of the Dimension Witch in an act of desperation to save her life… and in the doing so, set her long journey into motion. In his own way, Yukito was just as responsible for their small group meeting as the Dimension Witch herself. “But there is a belief in Clow that love is a special kind of medicine all on its own. Where sometimes herbcraft and the healer’s touch can fail, the wishes of a loved one can lend strength to a faltering heart.”

There wasn’t much Kurogane could say to that –long experience being prodded at and stitched up and fed healing tinctures had taught him never to argue with the person with the forceps or the needle or the spoonful of tonic– and so he kept his mouth firmly shut, even as Nadeshiko hummed softly to herself and started dabbing at the shallow scrapes and cuts that littered Kurogane’s cheek and forehead with a cool, damp cloth that smelt faintly of mint and clean herbs. It felt good, anyway, easing an itch he hadn’t known he’d felt, and if her magic was different ( _late-setting moonlight alighting softly on dew-dropped spring flowers_ to Tomoyo’s _high midnight moon reflecting silver on cool still water_ ) it was still sacred and strong.

A bandage was applied to his cheek, smoothed in place with care, and Nadeshiko nodded once in approval. “You can dress now, Kurogane-san; I think I am done with you. Yukito-san,” she added, turning briefly away as Kurogane struggled to slip his tunic over his head one handed, “Some of the salve we made last week should do; a jar of it, if you please, and three twists of willowbark and birch powder as well. That should last you for the night, until I see you again tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” and the clinical sounds of paper and powders and measuring tools followed as the priest bent over the bench and shelves of medicine at the back of the wide room.

“Tomorrow morning?” said Kurogane, startled. It was perhaps the first thing he’d said that wasn’t _yes, your Majesty_ since he’d landed in the healer’s wing in the first place.

“Oh, certainly,” said the Queen, and smiled. It was a familiar smile, even down to the way her cheeks dimpled, and all of a sudden Kurogane knew where the princess –where _both_ of the princesses he had come to care for, so very much– had gotten it from. “You’re doing very well for how much damage you’ve sustained, and I believe you well enough to move to your own rooms– but you are only a man, no matter how remarkable; I expect to see you here every day until I say otherwise.” She frowned a little then, and reached out to tug at Kurogane’s tunic, easing it down over his bandaged shoulder and fussing with the lay of the collar and his slack sleeve where it had been carefully pinned. “There. Yukito, the salve, please.” The jar Yukito handed her was in turn pressed gently into Kurogane’s hand, cool glass that his fingers curled around without thought, and a small paper parcel set gently down beside him. “Have your friend slather you up with that twice a day, to prevent scarring; it will even help with the scars you already bear.”

Nadeshiko had not been pleased to see what time and lack of medical attention had done to the slope of Kurogane’s back, and he wasn’t such a masochist to deny that if he could ease the tight bands of twisted scar tissue that marked him up from shoulder to hip then all the better. “One twist of the powder at supper, another before bed, and the third in the morning when you wake. You can drink it in water, or even tea, if you like, as long as you take it all.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” said Kurogane, and earnt himself the soft weight of a cool hand resting gently atop of his head.

Nadeshiko smiled again, and this time the expression was queenly. “I don’t want you to exert yourself, either. By the grace of those who love you –and no small effort on our part, besides– your wounds are healing cleanly and well, better than I would expect, even; but you are still my patient, and I will not have you bring yourself to more pain. Take gentle walks, let the fresh air ease your breathing, and sleep often, Kurogane-san; while you are here, be at rest for a time. You are safe in the kingdom of Clow.” The declaration was kindly meant and coupled with a light in green eyes that brought to mind determination and a protectiveness that was fierce and gentle, all at once– before it gave way to a mischievous spark that made Kurogane flush under her regard.

“That said, it is cold in the desert at night, so you need not sleep alone if you do not wish to. Just take things easy and _slow_ , hmm? Healer’s orders,” said Nadeshiko, with a wink that reminded him that this woman was a mother twice over and a wife of many years besides.

“Yes, your Majesty,” mumbled Kurogane again, to the tune of Yukito’s soft laughter, and willed his face not to burn. (He was not particularly successful.)

The gentle hand lifted from his head. “Go on, now. I know you’ve at least one young man waiting outside my door who is anxious to see you.”

* * *

Glass jar in hand and paper packet tucked into his cloth belt, Kurogane was unsurprised to find Fai outside the grand archway that lead to the healing wing, the mage aiming for nonchalance with book in hand while leaning against the wall. Despite the expected shock to the system regaining both an eye and his magic once more, the mage turned vampire turned vampire-mage had escaped the hospice beds early in their stay, leaving Kurogane to convalesce in peace. Mostly peace, anyway, considering Fai had snuck in to see him at least twice daily, usually with the manjuu or one of the kids, but always with a book or a game or new gossip, and sometimes even with a bottle of fine liquor pilfered from the palace’s own stores.

(“You know the King would give you the key to the damn wine cellar if you just _asked for it_ , mage.”

“Ah, but the stealing part is half the fun, Kuro-sama!”)

“So Kuro-sama has a clean bill of health, hmm?” asked Fai, looking up at Kurogane through pale lashes while pretending he wasn’t. His eyes were, once more, impossibly blue, and he could not have possibly been reading since the pages of his book were scrawled and illegible. “Did Her Majesty set you free from the healer’s grasp at last?”

Fai closed his book with a snap, tucking it into the folds of his short cloak, floating in voluminous layers over his tunic. Kurogane grunted. “I have to come back tomorrow morning. Give me your hand.” Fai blinked at him but did as he was asked, and the jar Kurogane pressed into his palm was met with a curious eye. “Salve. For the scars,” added Kurogane, and felt Fai flinch even before the mage did, blue eyes darkening beneath the mop of fair hair that fell across them in a soft shadow as he tucked the jar into a pocket.

“I see.”

The pained hiss that escaped from Fai at the thump of Kurogane’s hand atop his fool head –lightly, mind; the mage had proven himself to have a thick skull at the best of times, and Kurogane only had one hand to spare without shattering his fingers on the idiot’s crown– was enough to startle him from his sulk. “Enough. You start moping again and I’ll hang you over the balcony by your ankles.” _Which_ balcony, he didn’t know, considering the palace seemed to be made up from pillars and balconies entirely, but Kurogane was sure he’d find at least one to serve his needs.

“And how, exactly, does Kuro-sama intend to shake some sense back into me with only one arm?” countered Fai, and looped his own arm through the crook of Kurogane’s elbow to steer him down the long and airy hall. “You’ll need two hands to keep a grip on me– I’m not an easy man to hold onto, Kuro-tan, I can promise you that.”

“I can hold you just fine with one arm,” snapped Kurogane, without really thinking about the words as they tumbled past his lips, and Fai almost walked them both into a looming pillar from the shock of it. He had to spin them both around quite quick to avoid the collision, and somehow in the confusion Kurogane found himself with his back pressed flat against a sand-smoothed wall, the coolness of the stone trickling through the cotton of his tunic, and Fai gaping up at him.

“Well,” said Fai, a few seconds after he’d managed to tighten his slack jaw once more. His ears were red. “Was that something you meant to say, or just a slip of the tongue?”

“What,” said Kurogane, and then “Oh,” once he’d had a chance to think about it, and then after a long moment that spun tense and silent between them, “Yes.”

Because Fai had changed for the children, had wished them happiness from the first and at the very last started to wish for happiness for _himself_ , and Kurogane would give him that, if he could. Because there had been pain and misunderstandings and blood enough to soak a battleground between them, but now things were different; they had both lost and they had both _gained_ , and there was something between them that could not have grown before. If their past was behind them and their future unsure, their present was this quiet moment in which they now stood together, would _stay together_ as long as they both could. And in this now Fai was watching him with blue-again eyes and his quicksilver tongue gone still, and something like _hope_ glowing in the lines of that pale, thin face– the face that Kurogane found, in spite of his best efforts to pretend otherwise, beautiful in a way he had found very few things ever to be.

“Yes,” said Kurogane, firmer this time, and wondered if somewhere his princess –his _first_ princess, seeing as he had three of them now– was laughing at him. “ _Yes_.”

And the wall behind him became a blessing then, something Kurogane could lean against when his knees turned unsteady, because there was a gleam in Fai’s eye that had not been there before and quite suddenly his arm was wrapped around thin shoulders with Fai’s own hands curling up the back of his neck like vines; cool fingers threaded through Kurogane’s hair in careful, delighted trembles of touch and Fai’s mouth opened soft and warm against his own, pressing and coaxing and urgent in a way that ached all through his chest. So Kurogane held him close, fingers tight in the loose cloth of Fai’s tunic as the man he held sighed gently, and kissed Kurogane as though he could not care they stood in the middle of an open hallway in Clow’s royal palace; as though there were nothing better Fai might wish from the world than to have this moment here and now.

“When was Kuro-sama going to tell me?” asked Fai gently, a little time later. His lips were red, kiss-swollen and distracting, and it took Kurogane longer than it should have to find his focus once more.

“Mm? Uh,” and Kurogane shrugged, a hopeless roll of his shoulders as his palm slid gently down the slope of Fai’s back. “I didn’t plan this, if that’s what you were asking. I sort of just…” he trailed off slowly, because Fai was smiling, and it was crooked and small and wholly, absolutely _real_ , and all Kurogane could think of was how easy it would be to lean forward and just–

“Quite,” purred Fai, and the slip of cool fingers from his hair startled Kurogane away from his train of thought. “Kuro-sama surprised the both of us, I should think.” He didn’t sound displeased, or even truly teasing; there was a thread of wonder in his voice that the sly gleam in his eyes could not hide, and when Fai’s hand slid carefully down his arm –fingertips skimming gently over the bandages that wound down Kurogane’s shoulder and all beneath his sleeve– to tangle thin, clever fingers with his own, Kurogane found himself grinning against the heartbeat that leapt beneath his breast.

“Let me take you to bed,” said Fai, still smiling, and given that the only protest Kurogane could muster was that it was only a quarter past the tenth hour of the morning, he could find no means to resist.

* * *

This part of the palace was not somewhere Kurogane was familiar with –his days in Clow so far had been spent within the healing wing’s walls– but all thoughts of architecture or spatial awareness fled with the soft click of the door closing behind Fai, the mage divesting himself of his short cloak and his book at the stand by the door, and smiling up at Kurogane in a way that brought to mind cats and birds and how quickly the latter were often devoured by the former. And because the gleam in Fai’s eye (that eager,  _hungry_ spark that made his breath quick and his blood run hot as though he marched to war and this man were something he wanted,  _needed_ to conquer) spoke of an urgency that was almost violent, Kurogane found himself marched quickly backwards across the room and towards the spacious, empty bed without a chance to do little more than admire the curtains billowing in the mid-morning breeze.

“Slow,” warned Kurogane, sitting heavily atop the thick mattress as Fai snatched away his slippers and then slid into his lap, tipping his head to look up into blue, _blue_ eyes, “we need to– I can’t–” and then Fai’s lips were soft on his throat and the winding, torturous drag of that wicked tongue over skin that felt too tight and too hot, all at once, was too distracting for Kurogane to even wonder where the rest of that sentence went.

“Slow,” agreed Fai, several long and breathless moments later; clever fingers had found the clasps of Kurogane’s tunic and were quickly making light work of them, baring skin and bandages alike to the sunlight that fluttered through the open windows and peeling the outer layers of his clothes away with brisk but gentle movements. “I can do _slow_ , Kuro-sama.” The lilt in his voice implied that this was in no way a mercy. “Her Majesty’s orders, I presume?” The paper packet Kurogane had tucked into his belt fell gently to the mattress and was nudged aside by Fai’s knee.

“Hm?” Fai’s tunic had fewer clasps, which was fantastic considering Kurogane had fewer fingers to work with these days, and the fabric was soft enough to crumple up beneath his searching palm as Kurogane slid it up and across the flat of Fai’s belly to feel the surge of his breath and the heartbeat that pounded in his breast. “Yes,” Kurogane said at last, remembering that he was to take things easy, and had every intention of doing so as his hand splayed wide over the breadth of Fai’s chest, his fingers wonderfully dark against fair skin that had seen little sunlight. His thumb found the softness of a nipple and dragged roughly across it; he felt Fai shudder happily above him as it tightened beneath his touch. “She said the desert gets cold at night.”

Fai _hmm_ ’d, head lolling back on his neck and the soft tail of his hair slipping over his shoulder, as pale and yellow as cornsilk bleached by the sun. “Mmm, _oh_. Yes. It is cold, all alone in that big bed,” he sighed mournfully, and clasped the back of Kurogane’s neck as he surged forward to drag his lips across the line of Fai’s breastbone, pressing a kiss to the heart that thundered there beneath muscle and bone and dragging his tongue across the tight peak of that pink nipple to catch it gently, gently with his teeth. “Hah–! _Mm_. Kuro-sama will have to, o-oh _yes_ , keep me warm.”

It was thrilling how quickly Fai’s voice could thicken, the rough burr of his words catching tight and hungry and that light and lilting voice Kurogane so often heard twittering away in his ear deepening to something nearly threatening, a throaty almost-growl that Kurogane still heard in his dreams sometimes, the ferociousness of this man when those he loved were threatened enough to make Kurogane want him all the more. And to hear that edge in Fai’s voice now, to hear that low and sultry warning and know that Fai was dangerous still, even in this moment, fired his blood with dizzying heat.

“Kuro-sama,” said Fai thickly, and his eyes were as blue as the horizon on a stormy summer night, clouded and heavy with possibility. “I’d like to get you out of the rest of those clothes now, if that’s quite alright.”

“Fine by me,” said Kurogane, and dragged his teeth against the swell of muscle where Fai’s heart was beating, flicked his tongue out in a hot swipe that earnt him a groan. “But you need to get naked too.”

“That can be arranged,” and it was a sigh as Fai’s fingers ran through his hair gently, teasing at the edge of his ear with rough-skinned fingertips. “Let me up, Kuro-sama, and lay back– I’ll take care of you.”

Part of Kurogane wanted to snap that he needed the care of no man, but that part of him was an arrogant idiot, and he had learnt better; Kurogane knew well enough now that to let another care for you when you were hurt was a strength and not a weakness. So he laid back, slowly, letting Fai ease him gently down with thin, strong hands curled about his shoulders, and let himself watch as Fai knelt above him to unfasten the rest of his clothes. Warm morning sunlight spilled across pale skin as though in benediction, and it was so different knowing that he could see Fai like this –no more stolen glances, no more pretending he didn’t want to see– that Kurogane had to reach out and press his fingertips against that soft skin to know this was real.

And maybe Fai understood, because he caught Kurogane’s hand in his own and raised it up to kiss his knuckles, lips moving gently over old scars and new, and his breath soft and damp against the inside of Kurogane’s palm as he turned his hand to hold that face and sweep his thumb over the fine line of Fai’s cheekbone. “I’m here,” murmured Fai, barely a whisper that Kurogane felt more than heard. “I’m here.”

“We’re here,” said Kurogane. “Together.”

Fai kissed his fingertips, eyelashes fluttering gently closed. “Yes.” He sighed again, nuzzling his face into Kurogane’s hand, and beneath his fingertips Kurogane felt the soft brush of his eyelashes, the gentle curve of his cheek, the softness of that sly and smiling mouth. “Now,” said Fai, and his tone was once again teasing, a light in blue eyes that promised wicked things to come, “let me finish undressing, and I’ll see what I can do for you, hm?” Kurogane’s fingers trailed down from his cheek to his throat, smooth and warm beneath his fingertips; Fai’s hands were always cold, but here was proof the man above him was alive and whole if not unscarred, his heart beating strong and his chest rising and falling with eager breath as Kurogane’s hand slipped heavy across the stripe of bare skin between the folds of his open tunic and stroked down, down.

Kurogane let his hand rest there, flat against the hard muscle of Fai’s stomach as the man above him stretched and stripped away his tunic, narrow shoulders arching back as Fai dropped his clothes carelessly on the floor. No bandages, no scars, here; vampire blood and the healing efforts of Clow’s priesthood had done its work, and when Fai rolled off him with an amused huff –Kurogane knew his grin to be hungry, the fall of his gaze greedy; saw it mirrored in the wanting in Fai’s own features, desire redoubled and returned in that smile and those gleaming eyes– to kick off his boots and wriggle out of his trews with laughing haste, his hand was not left empty for overlong.

“You’re all leg,” murmured Kurogane as Fai stalked back to the bed– because Fai _was_ , all his slender height in storkish legs and he _did_ stalk, the sharp angles of his hips and the wiry strength in those long limbs making his movement predatory even as Fai took his hand to climb back into his lap and curled Kurogane’s hand gently about the blade of his narrow hip.

“And you, my dear Kuro-sama, look as though you were carved from bulloak– heavy dark wood, sturdier than steel,” Fai added, leaning down to splay his hands wide over the bandages that wrapped the breadth of Kurogane’s chest. “The first time I saw you, I thought: _I could shatter myself on this man_.” Beneath linen and gauze, Kurogane’s skin tightened, the trailing stroke of Fai’s fingertips its own kind of magic. “Before I knew you, I hated you,” whispered Fai, and his words were soft, dark, untempered by the sunlight that dripped honey highlights in the silk of his hair. “You were my enemy. And once I knew you, knew the kind of man you were, the kind of man you _are_ , I hated you _more._ For you were nothing I wanted and everything I needed.”

Fai’s hands slid softly higher, their touch light and gentle and above all careful as his hands met the barren slope of Kurogane’s left shoulder, curled gently where his arm had once been. It was still strange, to feel touch where the stroke of steel had severed flesh and bone: uncomfortable, if not painful, and not something Kurogane could say he enjoyed. But the cool touch of Fai’s fingers and the care and sorrow and _love_ in how they swept trembling over the worst of his wounds was enough for Kurogane to feel no regret. What was done, was done, and had bought with its sacrifice the life of another; and if it were a price he were asked to pay again, then so be it, and never mind the cost.

“And now I do not hate you, not at all,” said Fai, and leant down to kiss him once more.

He lost himself in that kiss for a little while, let himself drift into the heat and urgency of Fai’s mouth, and the tease of his tongue; let his hand wander where it would over planes of warm skin and the muscle that moved silkily beneath it, testing the strength of this man with the squeeze of his fingers and stroking over fairness that flushed with warmth where his touch trailed. And when Fai drew back, shuddering happily, his eyes eager and his face warm with colour that spilt over the bridge of his nose and down the hollows of his throat to bring a rosy heat to his breast –blue eyes hooded, his chest heaving; nipples pink and tight and blatantly hard– Kurogane grinned and let his hand slide up the length of one thigh, the muscle of Fai’s flank trembling beneath his palm as his fingertips stroked higher, higher.

“You _tease_ ,” breathed Fai, and he sounded utterly delighted. “Let’s get you out of those trousers, hm? I want to keep touching you, and it’s not as fun if you’re still dressed.”

“Heh,” said Kurogane, more of a breath than anything else; Fai was not the only one whose heart was racing. Kurogane balanced his weight on his good elbow and lifted his hips when Fai tugged at his belt, however, the soft cloth of his infirmary clothes sliding down his legs with surprising speed, followed quickly by the mage’s clever fingers working at the ties of his loincloth and Kurogane laughing at Fai’s frustrated grumbling. Choice of underclothes were just another difference in the cultures that had raised them, and had been a topic of cheerfully drunken argument in at least three different inns they’d spent the night in worlds long since passed.

Fai was more careful stripping away his undone tunic, guiding Kurogane forward to rest his forehead against the edge of a skinny shoulder, those cool clever hands gentle where they eased cloth free from his arm without snagging on any of the winding bandages that crossed his chest. “One day,” Fai murmured into his hair, his eyes closed and his face pressed against Kurogane’s temple, lips moving softly, “one day you will have no wounds, and I will show you exactly how well I can manhandle you. And I will not stop until you are gasping, until you _yield_ , Kuro-sama,” and the heat threaded through that soft voice hit Kurogane in the ribs, trickled hot and slow down his spine to pool in his belly, his thighs taut and his loins aching beneath the _promise_ in those words. “But for today… having you like this, slow and careful in the sunlight– it’s more than enough for me.”

“You talk too much,” said Kurogane, instead of anything else like _yes, one day_ and _I love you_. “Kiss me.”

“So demanding,” murmured Fai, brows drawn tight in mock offence. “Who made you King of Clow?” but he caught Kurogane’s mouth all the same, and not just there: kissed his chin, his cheek, the bandage that patched one cheekbone; let his lips trail soft over bruises and the bridge of Kurogane’s nose, before kissing both eyelids so lightly Kurogane barely felt it at all. “Lie back, Kuro-sama. I’ve got you.”

Kurogane went down easily, his hand curled about the slope of Fai’s shoulder and Fai’s own arms wrapped around him to lower him into the cushioning mattress, Fai’s fingertips slipping gently over bandages and old scars alike when they drew carefully away. And when Fai settled himself warm and solid in the cradle of Kurogane’s hips, long legs splayed wide about his thighs –Fai wriggling a little against the heat rising beneath him, blue eyes unearthly bright in the sunlight and that sly, fair face flushed wonderfully pink– Kurogane sighed in something that was almost like contentment and let his hand fall once more to the blade of Fai’s hip, curling possessively around the bony jut of it.

“I don’t think Queen Nadeshiko will be terribly pleased with us if we put her salve to a different use than intended,” teased Fai, and the lightest scratch of his fingernails down the ridges of Kurogane’s abdomen made him grunt in appreciation. “However, I do believe Yukito-san may have predicted this outcome, and so…” he trailed off, then, leaning over to reach for the packet crumpled some small distance away atop the bedcovers, and from its papery depths found a phial of oil and not just the medicinal powders Kurogane had been prescribed.

“Huh.”

“I knew I was right about that priest,” laughed Fai, rolling the glass between his fingers. “ _Now_. Whatever shall I do with you, hmm?” and the sing-song lilt of that voice was familiar, but the heat in those eyes was new, Kurogane learning what it felt like to be prey and happily so as Fai eyed him up like a starving man a feast. “So many options. I don’t think we should try for anything too acrobatic,” continued Fai, his voice a warm hum against the slope of Kurogane’s throat, Fai bending down to press a kiss beneath his ear, “and I must admit to not having much patience left. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long, Kuro-sama, that I don’t think I can control myself for, _mm_ , too much longer.” Sharp teeth caught the edge of his earlobe, nibbled gently, and quite suddenly Fai’s hands were pinning Kurogane’s hips to the mattress to hold him in place as he rolled up and into that touch.

“ _Hn_.”

“I finally have all the time in all the worlds to have you as I want,” whispered Fai, and the long line of his body pressed Kurogane down, _down_ into the bed beneath them, the sheets rumpling and Kurogane’s legs falling open without thought to allow Fai between them, one slinging heavily over a bony hip to curl about the back of Fai’s thigh. “And I think– _hah_!” One hand was enough for Kurogane to lever himself up, surging against the man pressed against him from hip to shoulder in a rush of skin-to-skin; one hand was enough to hold him steady as Kurogane pressed his mouth to the slope of Fai’s neck, dragged his teeth down against the tendons that drew tight beneath the slow stroke of his tongue. It wasn’t enough to feel everything he wanted to, in this moment –the heartbeat that raced in Fai’s breast beneath the heavy press of his palm; the softness of that cornsilk hair between his rough fingers, catching and just damp with sweat– but it was all Kurogane had, and he would use all that he was given to know this man inside and out.

“Simple is fine,” he murmured, and bit Fai gently on the shoulder, savouring the hitch in that shuddering breath and the spasm of clever fingers about his hips, nails biting and sharp. “We can do more later. Get the oil.”

The cool slick of it across his loins, dripping down his thighs was enough to make Kurogane shiver, tipping his head back into sun-warmed sheets; the scent of almonds was sweet and strong as Fai slicked his fingers, and the delicious shudder that rolled down Fai’s body as he settled himself down, aligning himself with the cradle of Kurogane’s hips and pressing his cheek flat to Kurogane’s breast, enough to make him sigh. _Yes_. How long had he wanted this? To hold this man, and to be held, and damn the world outside everything of the two of them?

He wrapped his arm around as much of Fai as he could, over narrow shoulders and the slope of his back, his fingers tight and sure where they clasped Fai’s hip; and when Fai took them both in hand and stroked, slow and teasing and perfect –slippery and hot and tight, the roughness of Fai’s fingertips and the callus of his palm gliding wet and squeezing in the best of ways– Kurogane’s breath shuddered out of him in a long and trembling moan. “Nnnhh. ‘s _good_.” And it was, each long, hot pull of slick fingers a moreish thing that Kurogane arched into, back taut and thighs straining as that wicked touch curled and squeezed and _stroked_. “More, _mm_. Faster.”

“You have _such_ a way with words,” gasped Fai, and pressed his forehead harder against Kurogane’s collarbone, his breath huffing heavy and his hips jolting into the touch of cool fingers curled around them both, of his skin against Kurogane’s own and the oil slick between them. “Mmn _uh_ ,” and this time the groan sounded punched out of his chest, Fai’s mouth open and damp against Kurogane’s breast. “Uhh. You’re s-so right, though– _ah_ – ah _uh_ -!”

“Do you _ever_ ,” panted Kurogane, and twisted his hips into the next stroke, shuddering all over as he fought to raise them both up with each quickening slide of clever, _clever_ fingers, “ever, shut up?” His fingers were twitching at Fai’s hip, dragging red lines across the small of his back, clasping firmly the back of a leanly muscled thigh.

“No,” Fai half-laughed, half-groaned, and shook his head; soft hair fell about his face in fraying locks to tickle Kurogane’s chest with fine, fair strands, and the hand that wasn’t tucked between them both slid urgently up Kurogane’s side, curling fingers into the lines of his bandages and trembling with the desperate need to hold on and not let go. “I’m– I _can’t_ –”

There was taking it slow and there was taking it easy, and then there was _this_ : the ache twisting Kurogane into a knotted tangle beneath each stroke, the sweat-slick press of Fai’s forehead to his breast and the hot gasping of his speeding breath; the desperate clutch of Fai’s fingers, fighting to keep their shivering grip on Kurogane’s bandages gentle and light and failing, _failing_ as that frantic heartbeat rattled against Kurogane’s ribs in time with his own pounding heart; the heat of the man between his thighs, solid and real and caught in the press of Kurogane’s legs, of his arm, of everything he had to hold onto Fai with and _never let him go again_ –

The sound that trickled through Fai’s gritted teeth was harsh and broken, his shoulders shaking and his hand stuttering in its stroking as he came undone, warmth spilling slick between them and Fai helpless against its tide– but he _didn’t stop_ , and Kurogane had to force himself not to squeeze brutally hard in thoughtless reflex as his arm tightened around Fai, pulling him closer, closer at the very last; and when the heat that knotted in his gut unravelled into fraying, sparking pleasure that tore a moan from his throat and a twitch of pain from his straining shoulders (but not enough to _stop_ , no, barely even a warning; the sharp edge of it skating too close to be anything but perfect), Kurogane gasped out something that could have been Fai’s name and fell tumbling into the glorious darkness beyond that aching peak.

* * *

Kurogane didn’t fall asleep, not really, not yet; just dozed a little between each slowing heartbeat and the soft, happy sounds Fai was making as Kurogane’s hand stroked drowsily up the length of Fai’s spine, and when the fluffy head pillowed heavy on his chest turned a little –enough that he could just see a hazy blue eye between the mess of the softly tangled strands falling over that much-loved face– Kurogane lifted careful fingers to trace the shell of one pink ear with teasing fingertips.

“Mmnm,” mumbled Fai, canting his head into the touch, and then not much else; he sighed out in a huff of breath that stirred his hair and rubbed his face against the crossed wrapping of gauzy bandages, his hair spilling in pale locks and damp hands curled warm and slack between Kurogane’s belly and his own. “That was worth waiting for,” he murmured, and yawned wide enough that Kurogane heard his jaw crack.

“You’re not going to sleep,” muttered Kurogane, fighting off a yawn of his own and marginally succeeding. “It’s not even noon.” And it wasn’t, the bright yellow sunshine fluttering through the curtains only barely starting to warm with the heat of the day against the smooth, pale stone of the palace walls, and the shadows not nearly deep enough for the afternoon. The soft breeze that followed the sun was still mild where it brushed bare, sweat-dappled skin, though; the slick of oil and sex between their legs cooling too, uncomfortably so, and Kurogane watched as Fai wrinkled his nose and squirmed a bit, enough that Kurogane unslung his leg from across the back of his thigh to let him up.

“I should clean us up,” Fai mumbled, planting his hands into the bedcovers and lifting his head at last. The silky mess that crowned him was sex-mussed and tangled, making Kurogane snort at the ridiculousness of the soft hair that fluffed about his face. Blue eyes widened at the sound, and Fai grinned. “ _Wah_ , Kuro-sama is so _cruel_ to laugh after debauching me so,” he wailed, but at only a third of the normal volume, his voice thick and soft and just a little gravelly, and the look on Fai’s face was too pleased to be anything but mock-injured.

“Who debauched _who_ here,” Kurogane muttered, and it wasn’t really a question, but Fai was easing himself away with slow, graceful movements without care for answering it, not at all unsteady as he slipped off the bed and to his feet. Kurogane watched him cross the room with lazy satisfaction, unwilling to move from where he lay, and when Fai ventured back from the clothes chest and mirror across from the bed with a soft cloth and pitcher of water in hand, Kurogane’s only concession to effort was to reach out his hand and help Fai back down onto the mattress.

“You’ll need a proper bath and a change of bandages later,” sighed Fai, dampening a cloth with water that was scented with lemon and mint and trailing it lightly across Kurogane’s stomach and thighs, and the touch of his hands was gentle. “And I’ll see what I can do to salve your wounds then as well. For now, though, this is enough,” and Fai dipped briefly low to kiss the marks his nails had left, scratched red across the blade of Kurogane’s hip in small crescents. His hair, loose now, his ribbon lost somewhere in its silky tangles, spilt soft across Kurogane’s skin.

“Mm.” Unspoken was the implication that Kurogane would not be bathing alone, or that it would be Fai’s hands and no priest that wound him tight with clean bandages once more. “Come here,” said Kurogane, when Fai had cleaned himself up as well and busied away the cloth and pitcher, and needed only to reach out his hand for Fai to take it with his own. “I want you with me.”

“Yes,” said Fai, and let himself be drawn down and close once more, easing into the crook of Kurogane’s arm and the weight of his body settling into the hollow of Kurogane’s shoulder as though he belonged there; and his own arms curled slow and sure and unsubtly possessive around Kurogane’s waist because Fai really, truly did. “I want that too. Kuro-sama.”

“Mm.” In spite of his protestations against sleep, it was coming still, in the heaviness of Kurogane’s limbs and the drowsy warmth of Fai settled against him. But then, the Queen had said he was to sleep often and rest if he was to be well later, and Kurogane found her argument compelling all the same. They were safe here, in this room, in this country; and it would not be so bad to take that safety where he could and heal for the journey still to come.

“Go on,” Fai murmured softly. “Sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake,” and if Kurogane closed his eyes at last beneath the weight of that promise, it was only because Fai was wrapped in his arm and he was in Fai’s, and everything this man had said Kurogane knew to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to 'Two Men in Love' by the Irrepressibles as I edited this. It's a beautiful song.


	2. the Chaser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [xbraidedxidiot](http://braidedxidiotx.tumblr.com/) who requested Outo-specific smut. How could I not? Consider this to take place sometime between the confrontation at the Clover bar, and before Seishirou shows up to ruin everything.
> 
> Warnings: multiple references to alcohol; multiple references to injuries sustained; hands-on treatment of injuries without anaesthesia.

The liquor in Outo tastes strange: too potent by far, and with an aftertaste that doesn’t quite fade from the tongue like it should. Fai has to wonder if it is a difference in brewing or fermentation, or maybe something more sinister; he’s never been knocked so thoroughly on his arse by so little to drink before, or woken up with the brass bells of Gehenna clanging in his ears and his eyelids weighed down as though by stone, either.

It doesn’t stop him drinking it though, especially as the days blur on and on in a cherry–pink haze of contentment; cup after cup and night after night, and in the morning the dryness of his mouth and the ache that all but cracks his skull as he stumbles to his feet and wakes the house to another day of Oni-hunting and cake-baking, Sakura-chan’s happiness as blindingly bright as always, is just another thing he hides behind a smile. It’s dangerously pleasant here, in the Country of Cherry Blossoms, and he could slip so easily into bad habits. Well. Worse habits.

“Kuro-wan went drinking without me,” Fai whines into the echo of the doorchime, and the drag of his sore foot across the tiled floor scrapes pain all the way up his calf and into his knee in a firecracker throb. It’s nearly too much effort to drape himself over the bench, seeing as he has to almost-hop to get there without his cane, but if Kurogane notices (and he certainly does; sharp eyes, that one) then he doesn’t particularly care, crossing the room to drop a paper-wrapped bottle on the benchtop with a muffled _clunk_ and a soft _gloop_ of liquid against thick glass. “Ohhh, liquor~! Maybe Big Puppy is not such a bad dog after all.”

“Call me a dog again and I’ll cut out your tongue,” says Kurogane, but tiredly, and Fai knows he means it even less than usual. There’s a nerve in Kurogane’s temple that tics when he is angry, and it is still now; the sharp, strong lines of that striking face are mostly placid, and only the barest frown mars his forehead. “Still nothing. For someone who claims to know all the gossip in town, that bartender is next to useless.”

Kurogane all but falls onto a stool, the wood creaking under his sudden, heavy weight; long legs stretch out endlessly, the dark folds of the pleated pants Kurogane called _hakama_ falling back from his ankles and bare feet. Big feet, for a big man, and ones that stomp more than step– which is why it’s almost startling how light Kurogane can be on his feet when he wants to be, soundless and quick to fade into the shadows around them. Still, Fai has been frightened by worse things than an overgrown brute with a short temper and the truly odd tendency to take his shoes off as soon as he’s inside a building; he knows Kurogane well enough now to see he’s mostly bark, more threat than bite.

“Shall I get you a glass? Or has Kuro-tipple drunk enough for the night?” Big Puppy’s definitely had a sip of _something_ , or at least flirted with the bottle; Fai can taste the boozy fumes of the bar where they’ve soaked into the thick weave of his clothes, even under the scent of cool night air and gas-lamps and something else, rich and nameless, from his walk home in the dark. Beneath the press of Fai’s circling fingertip –still ever so slightly wet from washing the day’s dishes– the blade-thin rim of the glass hums in protest.

“No more for me,” says Kurogane flatly. “It doesn’t taste right.” So Fai isn’t the only one who noticed, then. “Don’t go giving any more of it to the kids, either,” his companion grumbles, “I don’t wanna see anyone but you drinking out that bottle.”

Only Kurogane could voice a gift as a threat. “Just as you say, Kuro-chan,” says Fai, and pops the cork; no need for a glass if he’s the only one drinking. He tips the bottle in cheerful salute. “Cheers.” Cold vapour pours between his teeth as he takes a sip, and for a moment the cool slide of it is almost tasteless, a sharp mouthful of clean and biting spirit that trickles down his throat like meltwater. But the burn comes back as it always does, almost enough to make his eyes water, and Fai chokes a little as he swallows. “ _Oof_. You’ve got a taste for the strong stuff, even when you’re not drinking it. That could strip paint.” Fai tries a smaller sip; it slides down smoother, but the burn is twice as fierce.

“Don’t drink it all at once, then,” sighs Kurogane, resting one elbow on the bench and bending his head down to meet it. His eyes are closed, and for a moment he looks very, very young. The lamplight picks out warm highlights in his hair, glossy russet flickers of almost-colour in all the black. “The kid make it home alright?”

“A few hours ago,” says Fai, and braces himself to take a proper mouthful this time; it doesn’t sting so much on the third try, now that he knows what to expect, but it’s still potent. “Syaoran-kun was all dirty again. What _have_ you got the boy doing in the name of swordsmanship- crawling through the ash-heap? You’ll make our Little Kitty cry if you keep bullying him so.” Kurogane only snorts and waves a hand as though expecting Fai to keep talking. He does. “I sent him to a bath, fed him, and packed him off to bed in that order, and Sakura-chan not far behind; she had a long day too. Even Mokona-chan was tuckered out. Oh, but Little Puppy did say he met up with his young friend again, though– the loud boy? Riyuu-something?”

“Ryuou,” says Kurogane smoothly, without looking up, and his deep voice makes the syllables tumble over themselves, liquid and gravelly all at once. “Kid’s a noisy one, but he’s a half-way decent fighter. Needs to learn when to stop talking, though.” Kurogane turns his head, just a little; just enough that Fai can see the sharp gleam of an even sharper eye. “Like someone else I know.”

“Ooh, that _hurts_ , Kuro-wan.” Another sip, and Fai sets the bottle down, the spirits burning coolly alcoholic on his lips and coating his teeth; it tingles on his tongue, as cold and as breathlessly sharp as winter air. “Big Puppy has a nasty bite.”

Two days ago, Fai would have got a spectacular rise from that; would have probably been chased around the café for his pains, sword-drawn and snarling swordsman in his dancing wake. Now he gets a scowl and the quirk of a dark eyebrow, and Kurogane reaching out one big, big hand to pluck the bottle from Fai’s fingers and bring it to his lips. “I thought you weren’t drinking any,” says Fai, and he’s not at all fascinated by the kiss of liquor-slick glass to that sighing mouth. For a man who scowls so often and so well, Kurogane’s lips really are beautifully built for kissing. (Not that Fai has noticed.)

“Changed my mind.” Kurogane takes a long, slow pull from the bottle, his fingers curled gently around its long neck. They wrap it completely, the sloping stretch of fluted glass all but covered entirely by the span of his hand, and Fai does not doubt that Kurogane could crush it to powder if only he tightened that strong grip. The warm light of the lamps spangles through dark glass where the paper wrapping is scrunched open, and Fai watches Kurogane swallow with more fascination than he really should: the gentle undulation of that bare throat, the way those lips part softly from the wet glass of the bottle’s mouth. “You’re right,” is the murmured assessment when Kurogane is done. “That is strong.” The bottle meets benchtop again, almost soundlessly as Kurogane stands in a long unfolding of limbs and draping sleeves, and it’s when the folds of his overcoat slip just loose enough around his middle that Fai sees the blood soaking through sea-green cotton of the buttoned shirt beneath.

“You’re hurt.” It’s not quite a gasp, but it could be the cousin of one, and Fai bites his tongue on the instinctive protest that tries to sneak past his teeth.

“Hm? Not really. A scratch,” says Kurogane, and tucks the folds of his clothes a little tighter; his fingertips come away red and wet where they brush against cloth, and by Fai’s count that’s bleeding far more than a mere _scratch_. “It’s fine, I’ll look at it later. Tell me the kids left enough hot water for a bath in the boiler.”

But Fai will not be deterred by the clumsy attempt at misdirection; a warrior with words, Kurogane is not– at least, not to _Fai’s_ standard. “Let me see,” he says, surprising himself a little at the firmness of his tone, and Kurogane too, apparently, considering how those big hands still, fingers curled around the folds of cloth as though to press them flat against a wound Fai is more convinced than ever needs to be inspected.

The long, hard look Kurogane gives him speaks more than he does, and is twice as distrustful. “Why?”

“ _Because_ ,” says Fai brightly, as though talking to a child, “if Big Puppy bleeds to death during the night, then Big Kitty will be the one cleaning up the mess in the morning, and Big Kitty doesn’t see why he should be expected to carry such a big, _heavy_ body down the stairs and to the ash-heap in the alleyway when it was Big Puppy’s own fault for getting hurt in the first place.”

And yes, the singsong tone of his words is just as grating as always, apparently, Kurogane’s eyebrow twitching in time with the lilt of his voice and the knuckles of his hands tightening where he grips bloodied cloth. There’s more blood that Fai can see, now that he’s looking for it; the low light of the lamps and the dark navy weave of the thick coat that wraps Kurogane disguising its slow seep well, but not so well it can’t be noticed when one searches for it, and that’s worrying enough. He’s seen Kurogane take down a dozen Oni with a single strike and come away unharmed, so how many must the man have been fighting to catch more than merely a glancing blow?

Kurogane scowls, lip curling and teeth bared, and for a moment Fai watches the disgust war with other emotions he cannot name across that dark and handsome face. “Fine,” Kurogane grunts eventually, but doesn’t sit back down on the stool as Fai expects; jerks his head to the dark hallway beyond the main room, the one which leads to a linen press and the rooms where the children sleep, and says instead, “You wanna see it, you can damn well make yourself useful. Get me some clean cloth from the cupboard, and a needle and thread.” Kurogane pauses for a moment, then grabs the liquor bottle once more, and a packet of matches from the glass bowl on the countertop. “I’ll need this too.”

Fai steels himself to limp across the room –his ankle is taking far too long to heal, longer than it ought to– but Kurogane hooks Fai’s cane with his free hand where it leans up against the counter and tosses it to him in a neat throw, one that Fai catches without thinking. “Idiot,” grumbles Kurogane. “Use your damn cane. The manjuu didn’t spit it up for you to hobble around the place without it.” Kurogane brushes past him without a word, leaving Fai to hurry to the hallway –well, as much as he _can_ hurry, with cane in hand and each step a flare of agony in his ankle– and when he returns with thread and cloth and needle, Kurogane has already stripped the thick folds of his outercoat away and is making light work of the buttoned shirt beneath.

Soft green cloth, wet-black with blood, sticks to what looks to be a jagged slash across Kurogane’s ribs, and Fai hisses a slow breath between his teeth as he watches two dark hands take the folds of that shirt in their strong grip and peel it away, without care for the raw and bloody stickiness it clings to. It must hurt to do so, yet Kurogane makes no sound; his face set and the dark glitter of his eyes in the light of the lamps the only sign he felt the pain at all.

And when Fai offers up a wad of clean cloth –damp, wetted down from the bowl Kurogane filled from the taps and set neatly by his elbow on the polished wood of the countertop– Kurogane murmurs something that could be his thanks as he takes it in hand, daubing away blood and sweat from the vivid red slash that cuts into the thick braiding of muscle across the cage of his ribs. It’s a shallow cut, from what Fai can see, mostly neat even if it is a little ragged around its trailing edges… although it’s definitely more than the scratch Kurogane played it off as. Then Fai sees the _other_ scars as Kurogane shucks his shirt from those broad shoulders completely, baring skin that has worn more old wounds than Fai could count in an hour, and he understands that, to this man, maybe a cut like this really is nothing at all.

“Don’t stare,” says Kurogane, after the third time he’s swapped his cleaning cloth for a fresh one. The water by his elbow is a muddy red, off-white cotton soaked through and dripping thin and pinkish splatters into the bowl as he wrings it out. “Not like you’ve never seen me bleed before, mage.” True enough –they both bled in Koryo, after all, and the burns from the acid had blistered something fierce– but this is a new context entirely, and Fai grits his teeth in sympathy when Kurogane takes a quick swig from the mouth of the liquor bottle before splashing it liberally over his fingers, the thread, the small and gleaming needle, and at last the wound itself.

“You mean to stitch it yourself?” is all that Fai asks, when Kurogane is done cleaning the wound, blotting away blood and alcohol both with the last scraps of clean cloth. He can’t think of anything else to say, staring into the flaring glow of a single match as Kurogane sets down the bottle and lights one with a scratch against the countertop and a breath of brimstone.

“Maybe I can’t embroider flowers on napkins,” mutters Kurogane, passing the flame across the metal so that it glows briefly blue as the liquor burns away, “like _some_ people,” and maybe Fai’s mouth curls a little at the corner, remembering how Sakura had spent an afternoon trying to convince him that tiny little blossoms woven into the corners of their linen ware would liven up the tables and bring in new customers, “but I can stitch just fine.”

Which Fai supposes is true enough; he’s seen Kurogane darn at least three different holes in Syaoran’s travelling cloak since their small group commenced their journey, and he huffs a soft laugh as Kurogane places the tip of the needle delicately between his teeth like a shard of silver as he unspools wet, dark thread. “Done it before,” Kurogane adds, and frees the needle to thread it in a single pass –uncaring of the impressed noise Fai can’t help but make– and bites through the length of thin cotton with a single snap of his teeth.

“Perhaps,” says Fai all the same, though the steadiness of those strong hands makes no _perhaps_ about it. “But from this angle? I don’t think so.” It’s not an easily accessible cut, even for such skilled hands, even if he accepts that Kurogane has done this before to other wounds carved into that dusky skin; better that Kurogane realise that Fai isn’t going to leave him to this alone and Fai muster up what little courage he has left. “Let me.” The offer slips out before he can think better of it, and Kurogane stares at him from under dark brows.

Fai can’t take the words back. Well, he _could_ – could laugh it off in the same way he laughs off everything that cuts just a little too close and probably earn himself a clip about the ear for his efforts, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t _want_ to, and that’s the most dangerous thing about it. He has neither space nor time for any kindness, and still here he stands, far too earnest for his own good and surely about to get himself in more trouble that he can really afford. (Kurogane is far too close, even as it is; the risk of even this small offer is too much for Fai to bear thinking about.)

There is a moment where Kurogane just looks at him, eyes focused and sharp. “If you stick me with that thing more than you need to,” he says slowly, “I’ll–”

“I won’t,” says Fai, too quickly. “I want to help.”

“Hn.” It’s not really an acceptance, per say, but it’s not an objection– which is probably the best Fai is going to get. So when Kurogane offers him the needle, Fai takes it and lays it carefully on the clean towels on the countertop; and when Kurogane leans back against the counter, knees bent and stance open, propping himself up on his elbows and breathing out slow and hard so that the red slice cut into his ribs is displayed clearly, Fai tips a splash of alcohol over his fingertips to clean them, and stands as still and tall as he can manage before the man who watches him with dark and cutting eyes.

“If you’re waiting for me to say please, you’re going to be waiting all night,” says Kurogane casually, voice rumbling and dark; after Fai has spent just a little too long wondering how the hell he’d talked himself into this, and also, how exactly does one start stitching up a wounded beast without ending up being wounded by said beast, it hits him like a blow to the gut and puts his hackles up.

“Well, if Big Puppy is so _eager_ , then I suppose we should just get started, hm?” He smiles, and there is nothing friendly in it. Kurogane grunts, and when Fai’s free hand splays across his ribs to hold steady, the slow expansion of a measured breath seems to thunder through Fai’s fingertips. “Grit your teeth, Kuro-tan, and count to three.”

He starts on two, the needle slipping easy through the lip of the wound and its sharp tip meeting less resistance than expected, but Kurogane does not flinch; he makes no sound, even when Fai’s fingertips press against the edges of the wound to hold it together, and the pull of thread doesn’t seem to bother him at all. He’s so quiet, in fact, that Fai can only tell he is still breathing by the steady rise of that broad chest, each breath careful and slow and almost meditative. When Fai finally dares a glance upwards through the fall of his hair –tightening the pull of thread in the same moment, fingers twisting it into a neat knot beneath the flow of the needle into the next suture– it’s to see Kurogane’s face as calm and as open as he has never seen it before, those sharp eyes falling half-closed and heavy with something Fai cannot name.

Kurogane’s blood slips warm along his fingertips, leaving his touch slick as it wells beneath the thread Fai pulls taut between the edges of the wound; the wet, whining sound it makes as he knots the second suture into place is startlingly loud against the echo of their mingling breathing and the soft hum of the yellow lamps above. The solidity of muscle and bone beneath his hands is the only thing that grounds Fai as his head lightens. The third stitch tied into the wound catches where a lip of skin has torn against the edge of what must have been a claw, a ragged snag of dark skin and the redness beneath, and the black of the thread is stark where Fai draws it through to bind it in place. Sweat beads along his hairline, tickling the back of his neck, and Fai pauses at the fourth suture to press his forehead against his own sleeve and huff a deep breath.

“Guess you know what you’re doing,” says Kurogane, and his voice is soft. His chest expands steadily beneath Fai’s hands, the slow drum of his heartbeat a heady pressure thrumming against Fai’s palm.

“Guess I do,” agrees Fai, and looks up just in time to see Kurogane close his eyes, head tipping back and throat bared to the pulse that flutters beneath dusky skin. It jumps a little when Fai pulls the thread, the tendons in Kurogane’s neck and jaw standing taut and the heavy muscle in those broad shoulders tensing beneath some strain that Fai can only feel an echo of, something pulling hot in his chest as his fingertips smear patters of red across the span of Kurogane’s ribs. “Nearly done, Kuro-sama.” It’s the only nickname that doesn’t draw a rise, these days.

“Four to go,” is the muttered response, Kurogane counting stitches and making a startlingly accurate prediction of how many more he needs, and that strong jaw tightens with an audible click of teeth at the next piercing push of the needle through cut skin. Kurogane’s pulse jumps again, and he swallows, the slow movement of his throat as it rolls vulnerable and distracting. Fai could do so much damage here, if he wanted to; could hurt Kurogane quite badly, with how he stands: arms open and elbows braced against the countertop, Fai pressed close between his bent knees and the long line of that bare chest and abdomen exposed and unprotected, Kurogane’s fierce guard let down just enough to let Fai in.

(Fai was cutting lemons, before, thin slices to adorn the drinks of the Cat’s Eye’s evening patrons; the knife is still close by and very, very sharp.)

The fifth suture knots in place, and Kurogane sighs– or at least Fai thinks it a sigh, a slow soft exhale that feels too intimate for him to witness, here in the lamplight with the warmth of Kurogane’s body on all sides of him and the very wet slide of blood beneath his fingers. His hands want to tremble, but there are three sutures left; to stop now would be worse than cowardice, and there is a compulsion in him – that _pull_ that sits heavy in his chest, a weight that drags against the cage of his ribs– to finish this besides.

“This would be easier if the needle was curved,” murmurs Fai, without thinking, because it _would_ ; easier too with forceps to hold the thin sliver of steel instead of the slick press of his bloodied fingertips, and he has to pause a moment to wipe his hands against the damp cloth cast aside by Kurogane’s elbow. Kurogane snorts a heavy breath as the needle is left to stick momentarily in the edges of the wound, a shining splinter that glitters in the movement of heaving ribs.

“Watch it,” he growls, but only with a third of the normal threat, and his eyes don’t open for all that his chest swells with each breath. “Don’t just leave that thing in me.”

“My hands were wet,” Fai counters sharply. “Would Big Puppy rather my fingers slip and I stick it somewhere it doesn’t belong?” He takes the opportunity to blot the wound a little too, snatching up a clean dishtowel and wetting it down. Kurogane hisses softly at the press of damp cloth to the edges of what will be a new scar one day, and red smears a little against its terry grain, soaking quickly through as Fai wipes it clean.

The comment earns him another snort, this one amused, and Fai grins in spite of himself as Kurogane’s lip curls to show the merest gleam of teeth. “ _Heh_. I’ll get you a proper hooked one next time.”

It’s an assumption on so many levels (that Kurogane will be hurt again; that Fai will be convinced to help sew him up) but it’s not voiced like a demand: more idle chatter than anything else, and in spite what Fai has seen of this man –how comfortable he is in battle, how easily he takes to violence– it’s almost comforting to hear. Almost, because he has too much to risk for comfort, and no matter the camaraderie this strange moment has lulled him into, with the warmth of the lamplight and the heat of Kurogane’s skin rising beneath his touch, it’s not something Fai can fool himself into thinking he belongs to. They’re still at odds, even if they are travelling as companions; have been right from the very start, that cold and rainy afternoon in the Witch’s yard. Eventually, their goals and aims will split, and no sense of friendship will spare them from the fallout.

“We should put together a healer’s kit,” mutters Kurogane, tensing again with the threading draw of the sixth stitch Fai pulls into place. His fingers are curled around the edges of the counter, brass-capped and polished wood creaking just a little in that strong grip. “It’s a wonder we’ve got this far without more than a few scrapes and bruises, and it wouldn’t hurt to have something on hand that the manjuu can spit up when we need it.” He tips his chin, brow creasing a little, and those eyes as they open are heavy-lidded and dark, glittering hot where he frowns down at Fai. “ _You_ might not give a damn if you get yourself injured, but the kids are a different story.”

Fai pulls the seventh stitch tighter than it really needs to be, earning a grunt and a huff of harsh breath. His absent smile thins at its edges even as the wound draws closed beneath his fingertips, and the needle trembles in his hand. “Careful, Kuro-woof. One might almost start to think you care.”

Kurogane is quiet after that; silent for the seventh and eighth sutures Fai sews into his skin, but the tension and the anger is there still, smouldering low in the coal-dark gaze that burns across his face. Fai doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare, and it’s not until he draws the final thread of the ninth stitch that Kurogane speaks at last. “Have you always thought so little of yourself?” says Kurogane softly, but his voice might as well be a thunderclap for how badly Fai starts, the needle slipping in his grasp and driving deep in a clumsy twist of his trembling fingers.

“ _Fuck_.” It’s more a breath than a curse, and Fai scrambles to grab at slippery steel with slicked and bloody fingernails, but Kurogane snatches his wrists up with a single-handed grip and yanks them away.

“Leave it.”

Fai shudders with the helpless roll of his stomach, panic fluttering up his throat. “I can’t–”

“I’ve had worse,” and Kurogane grinds it out, anger of a sort that Fai does not understand thick in his words. “I said _leave it_ ,” he rumbles, and Fai stops struggling in his grip, just long enough to watch Kurogane stroke one big hand over his own ribs in a broad-palmed slide that smears blood beneath its drag and catches on the needle’s eye, and dark fingers draw the sliver of steel out so quick Fai barely sees the trailing thread snap.

“But I–”

The needle clinks into the water basin, a soft ripple through murky red. “You think that’s the worst thing I’ve ever had stuck in my ribs?” There’s laughter, there, dark as it is, and Fai watches Kurogane’s lip curl. No lie, not with those scars; and how sick that _that’s_ a comfort even as his knees start to shake and his ankle buckle under the rush of his own unsteady weight. “Sit down before you fall down,” grumbles Kurogane, and the hand curled about Fai’s wrists loosens enough to slide to one elbow, steering him to the side and into the lee of the counter. “ _Sit_.”

“No stools on this side,” says Fai weakly, earning himself an irritated grunt that he can’t really disagree with. Because there aren’t, and the grinding weariness of staying upright has been something he’s fought against all day as the hours wore on and his ankle started to burn with the ache of it. “Honestly, Big Puppy should be the one sitting down, since he’s the one bleeding- I was only stitching, after all. I wasn’t the one hurt.” Kurogane is not impressed by that statement, even less than he usually is by Fai’s words, and Fai takes maybe half a shaking breath in an effort to smile before there are sudden heavy hands curled around his arms in a locking grip and his feet leave the floor as Kurogane jerks him into a strong hold. “Wha–?”

“Shut up,” says Kurogane shortly, and the shudder that hits Fai’s spine chokes a gasp from him and buckles his knees as Kurogane lifts him up with no effort at all. His stomach drops. His _jaw_ drops, and the heels of Fai’s shoes hit the boarding of the counter front with a scrabbling _clunk_ as his legs kick out weakly –another crack of pain racing up his shin, burning hot in the hollow behind his knee and in the twisting throb of his rolled ankle– against the weightless swoop that rolls through his gut. The polished wood of the counter bleeds dull cold against the back of his thighs when Kurogane drops him on its surface, and Fai cannot speak.

Kurogane had carried him home from the Clover bar in a soldier’s carry, yes, Fai’s face hot with shame and his head dizzy with the half-drunk confession he’d whispered into the echo of that song as he lay draped heavy over a broad shoulder –how could he just _say it_ like that, open up his mouth and let the words pour out like a loose-tongued fool with nothing to lose– but it hadn’t been like _this_ : forceful and strange and too intimate by far as Kurogane comes in close, crowding Fai where he sits on the countertop, stepping in between the knees that part for him without a thought. It’s instinct that makes him lean back, Fai’s breath stuttering against the inside of his teeth as Kurogane looms over him, a shadow cast long in the lamplight. Those eyes are hot and dark and deep enough to drown in, and when Kurogane’s hand reaches out –skirting the edge of Fai’s shirt, the brush of those rough and bloodied fingers against the folds of his sleeve enough to make him shiver– to take the bottle that sits heavy beside Fai, he feels the undertow pulling him down.

Kurogane takes a mouthful, slowly, and his gaze does not leave Fai’s face even once as Fai’s own wanders across the breadth of his chest and the scars carved there, old and new and every stage in-between; it’s hard to look up, but it’s harder to keep looking away, and in the end Kurogane is still swallowing when Fai’s chin raises and he forces his eyes level with Kurogane’s own.

“You’re as skittish as a cat tonight,” says Kurogane mildly, the lip of the bottle only an inch from his mouth and his words whistling across wet glass. “Wouldn’t think the blood would bother you that much.” It’s not the blood. Fai musters a truly weak smile, wordless and barely masking anything at all; one that Kurogane sees through it as though it weren’t there at all. “Or was it the needle?” he murmurs thoughtfully, and Fai has no space to answer in the time between Kurogane taking another sip and offering him back the bottle, his fingers shaking across the body as he takes it from Kurogane’s hand. The glass is still warm from Kurogane’s lips when he presses it to his own.

“My hand slipped,” is what Fai says after a long pull, speaking thickly and with a liquor-burnt tongue; and maybe it’s the booze making Kurogane mellow but he simply shrugs in response, a loose roll of powerful shoulders that startles a few droplets of blood from the stitches across his ribs. Without thinking, without anything at all like self-preservation, Fai reaches out with his free hand to smear those little red drops beneath his fingertips. “You can’t blame me for being nervous,” he continues, and the words are coming from some place made bolder by drink, “when Big Puppy has _such_ a temper.”

Kurogane’s eyes narrow. Beneath Fai’s fingers, his ribs swell, a deep breath sending a slow tremor through muscle and bone. “Enough with the dog jokes. Gimme that.” One big hand closes over Fai’s own, the bottle caught between their fingers, and Kurogane’s palm is rough with callus and the hard effort of hours upon hours spent learning how to kill many people with the absolute minimum of effort. A long and murderous list that will no-doubt include Fai if he doesn’t find some scrap of survival instinct to keep him from doing something truly, truly stupid.

“No,” says Fai, and inside his head he can hear himself laughing in helpless panic even as he tips the bottle back to his mouth, Kurogane’s fingers heavy and warm curled around his own. “It’s so _rude_ to drink the gift you gave someone else.”

Kurogane snorts, and jerks the bottle back; it slips into his hand with Fai’s fingers trailing after it. “Idiot. I don’t want a _drink_ – not right now, anyway; I want the booze. Not finished cleaning up yet.” He must mean to sterilise the wound, then; Fai can’t imagine Kurogane’s plans for the next week or so of healing include gangrene and certainly the liquor melting down Fai’s throat is potent enough to burn away even the most vicious of contagions. It makes enough sense that Fai almost lets go of his prize.

Almost.

“You gonna give it up or what?” growls Kurogane, after a silent moment of struggling in which he tries to coax Fai’s fingers loose from the barrel of the bottle and Fai’s grip only tightens. “You can take it to bed when I’m done for all I care, but I need that first.”

The liquor slops against the insides of the glass in a slow wave as Fai tugs it back, and the bottle sounds so much _emptier_ than it did however long ago it was that Kurogane first gave it to him. (How much has he drunk? How much have they _both_ drunk?) Fai has never really been the best judge of time; right now, he can feel it slipping through his fingers like so much sand, like water, like the blood that still wets his fingertips, and he wipes one hand absently on his trousers as he takes another long drag that burns as he swallows it down. “Let me,” says Fai again, when he stops to take a breath, and the voice he speaks with is not one he recognises as his own: soft and dark and heavy with the same weight that rolls slow and hot in his gut.

In his hand the bottle swings wide, Kurogane’s fingers slipping loose, and the mouth of the bottle –still damp with liquor and the ghost of his lips– tips up against Kurogane’s collarbone, a soft small motion that bleeds into something else entirely as Fai turns it up and its contents come trickling slowly out.

The yellow light of the lamps bronzes smoky liquid with amber and brass, gilded glints of colour that catch the eye as they melt into dusky skin, and the stark black of the stitches threaded across Kurogane’s ribs softens beneath the spill that pours down his chest in slick and shining lines. Wetness rolls over the swell of his breast, down his breastbone, soaking into the cut so neatly sewn by Fai’s trembling hands. It must be cold, on such hot skin, and the sting of alcohol as it bleeds into the edges of his wound can only be vicious, but Kurogane makes no sound; taut muscle jumps across the flat of that hard belly, the well-defined ridges of his abdomen rolling with a shuddering breath, and when Fai dares to look up it’s to see those sharp eyes flutter closed, the motion oddly delicate as dark lashes fall shut.

The muted _clunk_ of glass on wood breaks the silence as Fai sets the bottle down with clumsy haste, and his own harsh breathing rolls in to fill its echo. The air is thick with the taste of alcohol, dizzy fumes rising from dark skin, and each breath makes Fai feel drunk. _More_ than drunk, some heady buzzing at the back of his skull that spins his thoughts faster than mere booze ever could. It’s like _magic_ , like something presses heavy on his thoughts and drains his inhibitions away even as they rise, and he knows it’s nothing to do with how much liquor passed his lips.

No matter how much it was, it could never have been enough– not with how his mouth is parched dry with heat, not with the sore burn of his aching throat. Not with how he feels so _thirsty_.

Fai swallows, hard and painfully, and the urge is upon him before he even knows what to do with it. It’s with a sense of slow inevitability that he watches his hand rise from the benchtop to press against the well-cut arch of Kurogane’s hip –fabric bunched carelessly beneath questing fingers, that skin so hot and smooth beneath the brush of his palm– and take hold with trembling fingers, and when Fai himself tips forward his lips meet slick-wet skin in an open-mouthed sigh as his tongue flicks out over the shine of spilt liquor with desperate greed.

It tastes good. It tastes _good_. It tastes better than it ever did from the kiss of the bottle’s glassy mouth, and Fai can’t stop. He _can’t_. His lips drag across the roughness of old scars and the firm ridges of that flat stomach, his mouth open and panting in fog-heavy gasps of breath, and against the tip of his tongue he counts nine stitches: sewn neatly into the warmth of hard muscle, the edge of cotton catching in a delicate scrape where he licks them dry. The copper bloom of Kurogane’s blood is almost as sharp as the liquor, and just as dizzying. Fai gulps in another strangled breath as he presses his face into the breadth of that wet and shuddering chest, his hair catching on damp skin and his grip tightening on Kurogane’s hip; the drum of Kurogane’s heartbeat pounds through muscle and bone to vibrate against the tip of his nose where it presses against the flat of Kurogane’s breastbone.

Something is creaking, the softly stressed sound filtering through the drumming beat that fills Fai’s head. And when he finally catches his breath –catches his courage, fear and desire tangling his insides into a knot– and lifts his head enough to look and see how, exactly, Kurogane is going to kill him, it’s the tense and straining length of Kurogane’s arm that catches his attention first. Kurogane stands tall between Fai’s knees with head tipped back, breathing harsh, and the thick muscle that cords his arms is pulled taut; tendons pressing stark in the hollow of his locked elbows, threaded tight across his shoulders and in the shadow of his throat. Those hands –those big, _big_ hands– are curled in a crushing grip against the edge of the countertop, brass-capped wood splintering slow beneath the press of clawed fingers, and Fai _stares_ as the meaning of what he sees and what he hears collide.

The brass capping of the counter whines in protest when Kurogane jerks his hands away, dented beneath the force of his fingertips, and something like the drunken cousin of instinct slams Fai’s knees shut, thighs squeezing close and trapping Kurogane where he moves to pull back and forcing him to stillness. Even through layers and layers of clothes, Fai can feel the heat of him pressing close.

Kurogane looks down at last and those eyes are more than merely hot– they _burn_ where they catch Fai’s face, shadowed and glittering with shards of scattered lamplight, so dark they’re all but black with something Fai can’t (won’t) name. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he grates out, through gritted teeth. It’s not disgust that thickens his voice, not anger, not even begrudging acceptance. It’s not anything Fai can ever hope to understand. “You’re _drunk_.”

“What if I’m not?” whispers Fai, before he can think better of it; the words slip out almost on their own, as though this too was something that was meant to come to pass.

“You’ll still regret this in the morning,” is the murmur, and Kurogane _sighs_ after he speaks, the breath heavy and soft. His fingers twitch, a motion that travels up the length of his arm to his shoulder before he masters himself– but Fai isn’t expecting the way that hand swings up high to brush rough fingertips against his ear, falling through the mess of his hair in a slowly drifting touch, and he startles under it, breath catching in his throat. Stray strands catch roughly on sword-hardened callus and drag against Kurogane’s palm as he curls his hand against the angle of Fai’s jaw, and in spite of everything, Fai makes no move to stop it.

“Will you?” He doesn’t mean to turn into that hand, that palm, but it’s so _warm_ on skin that sometimes feels as though heat is only a memory that Fai really can’t help himself. He’s still thirsty, the taste of liquor ghosting on his breath not nearly enough, and Fai’s lips are dry enough he has to wet them to speak, his voice crackling thin in his throat and his speech breathless as Kurogane’s hand slides down, down. “Regret this?”

“I don’t do things I regret,” says Kurogane softly, and his thumb drags soft across Fai’s lips, glides gently under Fai’s chin to find his pulse; presses there where it flutters, and Fai swallows against the weight of it, the pressure on his throat a trembling ache. He should stop this. He should stop this right now. It isn’t too late, he’s not so far gone he can’t claw himself back to common sense, but Kurogane’s fingers curl and Fai’s chin tips up, and the shadows of the world start to blur at their edges as Kurogane leans in, leans _down_. Fai’s mouth falls gently open in heady anticipation. “Do you?”

Fai can taste the liquor on Kurogane’s breath. “Always.”

The kiss comes so quick it feels like falling, a weightless swoop that drops through Fai’s belly in a pull of breathless, desperate relief. You can only dance on the edge of the knife so long before you slip, after all, and if Fai is anything, he’s too weak to keep steady on his feet as Kurogane surges forward like the tide rolling in. Kurogane’s mouth is hot, his mouth is _wet_ , and it’s like everything Fai ever knew of thirst was leading to this moment. He doesn’t know how or when his hands left Kurogane’s hips to slide up his spine, fingertips clutching greedily as they cling, but it’s the only thing that holds him still when Kurogane licks between his lips, pressing in with a hot push the Fai feels all the way down to his toes.

This is a terrible idea. Possibly the worst Fai has had since… since things he can’t think about. But he can’t stop. Doesn’t want to. (It’s been so long since Fai has gotten anything he wanted.)

Kurogane’s hand lands heavy on his chest, scatters his thoughts beneath its gliding stroke, and Fai groans as the first button of his waistcoat falls open beneath the flick of clever fingers. The space between them is too hot to breathe, and when Kurogane speaks, Fai can feel those words thrumming deep against his lips. “In the morning,” Kurogane murmurs, and buttons two and three come loose in a dragging swipe towards Fai’s belly, fabric drifting loose in their wake. “In the morning, you’re going to pretend this never happened, aren’t you?”

Fai sighs, shuddering as he drops back to his elbows on the counter. “Oh, probably.” His legs tighten around the back of Kurogane’s knees to pull him closer, the thick fabric of his _hakama_ crumpling with a clothy rustle, and the hand curled wide beneath Fai’s chin spasms gently as Kurogane sways forward heavily, leaning into the press of Fai’s thighs. “People like me… Kuro-sama should know better than to think anything good can come from us.”

The hand in his hair is sudden and unexpected, tugging back with enough force that Fai bows into it, but it’s not nearly hard enough to hurt. The grip of Kurogane’s fingers where they tangle is firm but not fierce, and Fai’s pulse stutters in his throat as he is pulled down against the countertop, Kurogane looming tall and dark above him with his lamplit shadow thrown high against the ceiling. “People like you,” Kurogane says, leaning down, and his teeth catch so gently against Fai’s lips it’s almost a kiss, “need to learn when to _shut up_.”

There’s nothing else Fai can say, not with that mouth taking greedy possession of his own, not with his hands curling around Kurogane’s shoulders and scrabbling at warm, bare skin for a frantic hold. No scars here, beneath his fingertips, and it makes so much sense he could almost cry– since when would _Kurogane_ have ever turned his back on an enemy? This man will always run into battle with head high and sword drawn. Fai groans again, when Kurogane’s fingers leave his hair; breathes harsh beneath a shudder when Kurogane grabs his shoulders, fist fingers into handfuls of fine cloth and pulls in such a way Fai’s shirt parts beneath them in a cascade of snapped threads and pearly buttons that bounce across his belly to clatter to the floor.

His leg snaps out helplessly when Kurogane’s mouth leaves his own to press hot beneath his chin, and the dull throb of his aching ankle is lost beneath the roar of heat that thunders down Fai’s throat and into his chest as Kurogane drags his mouth wet and slow across Fai’s pulse, that wicked tongue a hot and fluttering pressure between the glide of lips made for kissing. “Ahh–! _Nnn_. Mm, mm. You’re such a– such a _good_ _dog_ ,” he moans, and earns himself a biting scrape of sharp teeth against soft and vulnerable skin; the pain spikes sweet into his skull, a piercing pleasure that cuts through his fogging thoughts and throbs down his spine.

“You bastard,” is the hissed retort, and Fai chokes on a laugh when one big hand grabs his belt, yanks brutally at the thin strap of leather; his hips jerk when it snaps, Fai arching like a bow against the polished counter and the hot, callused fingers that force open his trousers and push inside to loosen his underclothes. “You catty, vicious _bastard_.” Oh, Fai could warm himself for _years_ on the heat in that voice, the anger and the lust and the rumbling threat that tingles all the way up his spine, and when Kurogane bites him on the collarbone the sting of his teeth fires his blood with delight.

“Big Puppy,” he croons, and this time the twinge of his twisted ankle is noticeably sharp when Kurogane forces his legs wider in retort, catching a hand beneath Fai’s knee and hauling it up over one broad shoulder; the heel of his shoe thumps against the plane of Kurogane’s back dully and Fai bites back a choked breath, wincing against the pain that ricochets up from his ankle and into the bones of his shin. Kurogane notices. Of _course_ he does, and the hollow of Fai’s knee slides over the warm roll of Kurogane’s shoulder as he twists, loosening the laces of Fai’s shoe with quick flicks of his fingers. The relief as it slides from Fai’s foot and drops off his toes to tumble to the floor below the counter is instant.

“Idiot,” growls Kurogane. “If it hurts, say something.”

And perhaps Fai should feel chastised by that, but he doesn’t have time to be anything but stunned as Kurogane pulls off his _other_ shoe with more haste than gentleness, tossing it away without a thought for where it lands. “I need that,” mumbles Fai, a little breathlessly, as it sails past the distant tables and clatters to a landing somewhere in the rows of stacked chairs against the back wall.

“Drop your leg,” says Kurogane, ignoring him, and slightly confused, Fai does– only to startle before his bare foot can even touch the panelling of the bar, his trousers sliding down his legs in a rush of fabric as Kurogane drags them off with a backwards step. “Better,” rumbles Kurogane, apparently in approval, and this time his fingers curl warmly around the strapping wrapped about Fai’s ankle, holding it firmly as he steps close and eases under Fai’s knee once more. The slide of his fingers up Fai’s calf –warm and callused and terribly gentle– as he lays it across his shoulder is all kinds of distracting.

Fai should feel vulnerable, laid out like this, and maybe he does; but he feels _wanted_ more, and it’s as dizzying as the press of Kurogane’s mouth, the stroke of his lips as he bites a bruise beneath Fai’s chin. He’ll need to tie his collar high tomorrow to hide that from younger eyes, and Fai opens his mouth to protest; moans instead, losing his breath in a soft, shuddering cry as Kurogane drags his tongue flat down the line of Fai’s throat in a trail of _wet_ and _heat_ that follows his pounding pulse. Big hands slide up his thighs, the rough callused scrape of hard fingertips on bare skin teasing them apart and tickling beneath the thin edges of his underclothes enough to set his blood afire.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” hisses Fai, biting his lip when Kurogane ducks his head, and the tip of a clever tongue swipes quick and hard across a peaking nipple; the bruising press of Kurogane’s thumbs into the crease of his hips –forcing his legs apart, holding him there with pressure alone, helpless and open and deliciously frustrated– nearly makes Fai smack his head on the hard counter as it falls back.

“Not here,” says Kurogane, and presses his mouth warm to Fai’s breast; bites gently before closing his lips in a suckling rush of heat that pulses insistent in Fai’s gut. “Later.”

Fai’s toes curl as teeth scrape down his ribs, red lines tingling across flushed and aching skin as Kurogane bites sucking kisses across his jumping belly. “Is that a– _unnhh_ – threat?” It’s not really meant to be a gasp, but it comes out as one anyway, breathy and thick with wanting.

“An offer,” murmurs Kurogane, low and soft, and the words whisper warmth over skin that draws tight beneath them. “If you wanted.”

Fai’s hips roll upwards helplessly, his hands scrabbling against the countertop for purchase against the dizzying flush that burns across his face and wars with the pooling tension in his gut: a surging tide that pulls his pulse southward and drains his thoughts with it. He wants. Oh, he _wants_ , and it’s not– it’s not _safe_ , that offer, that voice, this man; not anything Fai can reasonably say yes to and expect to survive. There’s whatever _this_ is (heat and desperation and more loneliness than he can ever own up to) and then there’s walking straight into disaster with his arms open wide, and he should say no. Should stop this right now, before he sinks further.

“ _Yes_.” The word tears out of Fai in spite of himself, strangled through gritted teeth and the frantic scratching squeal of his fingernails scraping back against the countertop. No. _No._ He _can’t._ “–I, I _want_ –”

Whatever it is he’s begging for stutters out on a breathless groan when Kurogane’s tongue presses into his navel, a snaking push that throbs all the way through him, and this time Fai really does smack his head on the counter when Kurogane bites him on the hip, the quiver in his leg making it jump and twitch when dark fingers grip the thin cloth of his underclothes and pull it tight. He knows what’s coming next but it’s still a shock: the hot damp rush of a filthy laugh huffed out between his thighs, the drag and cling of lips that stroke across pounding heat, and the wicked wet press of a curling tongue that slicks clinging fabric.

“Yes.” It’s a plea, a _demand_ , and the weight of it on his tongue feels like surrender. “ _Yes_ –!” This time it’s a snarl, rippling up his throat as Kurogane hooks one hand beneath Fai’s knee, bends down with purpose; Fai’s shaking hand finds the crown of his head, his nails scratching through dark hair and tangling in its softness. “Kuro– _nnn_ , Kur _ohhh_ , Kuro–!”

“Shut up,” murmurs Kurogane, and beneath the sudden catch of his teeth, straining cloth tears open with a silky whine to leave Fai exposed and wanting. Fai’s hips roll into the sudden release of tension across his blood-heavy loins, heat burning a quiver down the taut and aching muscle of his thighs. “So _loud_ ,” Kurogane growls, and the heated flush of his breath on bare skin made wet with sweat and the slick that comes before sex is as dizzying as any liquor. “You’ll wake the kids.”

That thought should be as a bucket of ice-water to glowing coals, but Fai has no room for it beneath the assault of that mouth. His thoughts steam away like fog across a mirror, fingertips stroking through the darkness of Kurogane’s hair and lamplight blurring the edges of his eyelashes with gold as they flutter closed. He can’t feel anything else but the heat of this moment, the wet glide and sucking throb as Kurogane’s lips part greedily, and the sudden stinging scratch of Fai’s nails rumbles a groan through the mouth that closes about him.

The twist of Kurogane’s tongue speaks more than language, etches pleasure into his skin with the stroking touch of words Fai cannot understand and does not try to; the soft hum of a very satisfied man spills heat across Fai’s chest even as it echoes from between his legs in heavy pulses. Fai has to fight against the urge to curl down around Kurogane, wrap his thighs around broad and powerful shoulders, trap him in tight and close and keep him there (keep him forever); keep the heat and wet and terrible, _wonderful_ skill of that mouth all to himself, only and always. He can’t quite help it all the same, rising to his elbows with huffing gasps of effort, and when Fai looks down across the quivering flat of his belly –mouth open, breath hungry– it’s only to see Kurogane look up, and the _burn_ in red eyes nearly tumbles him down into insensibility.

Fai’s hand rises unsteadily, his own teeth sinking sharp into the heel of his thumb to stopper the cry welling in his throat; Fai clutches at his chin, gasping into his own palm at the feel of his fingers skittering across the pulse that pounds in his throat. It’s too much, all of it– this heat, the look in those eyes, the heady pleasure that sinks into his bones like water into parched soil, the wellspring of tension that snakes coils through his gut. He’s lost. He’s lost. (Too late to try to turn back, he’s already falling; danced along the edge and jumped right off it.) It’s too much, it’s too late, he’s lost, he’s _close_ –

“Stop,” mumbles Fai at last, tongue thick, words heavy in his clumsy mouth. “I’m– _mmm_ , close. _Gonna_. Gonna, mn.” Sweat drips down his nose, drops stinging to lips cracked and parched. Fai swallows, and so does Kurogane, the sudden sucking pull of his greedy mouth enough to flood heat through Fai’s rolling gut and flash stars across his eyes. “Ohh– Kuro, _nn_ , Kuro-sama. _Stop_. ‘m too close, now–”

Kurogane pulls back at last, and even the slick slide of his lips is unbearably good, an electric quiver racing through Fai’s thighs as big hands curl heavy around them, splaying wide and dark against his sweat-speckled skin. Kurogane’s mouth is wet, his lips glazed with a shine that isn’t liquor, pearlescent and slick where he drags his tongue across the gleam of his white, white teeth. His eyes are hooded and black, spangled with glinting heat where the lamplight pools in the fine-cast shadows of his face. “I thought,” says Kurogane, slowly, and the thick burr of his voice –roughened and husky, a softly sexed ruin of the deep rumble that rolls through Fai’s dreams like thunder– raises the hair on Fai’s arms, brings heat to his face and a heavy blush that tightens the skin of his chest like the hide of a drum, taut beneath the pounding of his heart. “I thought I told you to shut up.”

“I– ohhh _hhh_ – _!!_ ”

There are no words. Only heat, only sound, clawing up his throat and forcing itself through his teeth with a mind of its own: a straining, guttural wail that Fai can’t hold back as Kurogane bows his head and draws him down once more, draws him in with all the hunger of a starving man set before a feast. His hands are like manacles, clamped vicelike and forceful over the breadth of Fai’s thighs, pinning him completely– but Fai has no resistance, not now, not anymore, and the hands that fall to Kurogane’s shoulders are only to pull him in closer, _closer_ as he takes Fai so deep there’s no space left between them at all. The soft huffing of Kurogane’s breath, coming heavy through his nose and damp and hot on Fai’s skin where he forces himself down and hollows his cheeks in dizzying suction; the sweetly-bruising grip of Kurogane’s fingers and the tight and fluttering heat of his throat. That’s all it takes, in the end; just enough to tip Fai over the edge, to leave him hurting and helpless and filled with bone-melting _relief_ as the tidal surge rolls him up and drags him screaming into its crashing, foaming wake.

It feels like centuries have passed when Fai comes back, comes down, blinking his eyes slowly open in the echo of his soft, rasping breath. A hand, warm and callused and deliciously heavy, strokes slowly up his belly, and Fai wobbles up on one unsteady elbow to see Kurogane watching him with a gleam in his eye and the faintest curl to his lips. “Kuro-sama?” Fai manages drowsily, a little startled at the way his throat pinches, catching sore when he tries to speak.

Kurogane says nothing, only glides his hand gently higher to rest heavy over the swell of Fai’s breast; and when he has Fai’s full attention –as if this man has ever had anything but– the curl to his lip becomes a wicked grin as Kurogane swallows with slow and deliberate meaning.

The gentle roll of his throat brings heat to Fai’s face, a hot flush that spills down across his chest in a swooning rush of giddy realisation, and Fai has to struggle to manage anything like composure. He– he _just_ –

“You blacked out for a little, there,” murmurs Kurogane, and his voice– if it were a ruin before, now it rings husked and broken, a scratched-out purl of sound that rubs against the raw edges of Fai’s nerves like dark fur on bare, trembling skin. “Can’t say it wasn’t flattering,” continues the man above him, _far_ too pleased with himself and not that Fai can blame him. (He would be, too.) “I think you needed that,” he finishes at last, quietly thoughtful where Fai would have expected gloating, and the hand on Fai’s chest slides a little higher up, curling gently beneath his chin and tilting it up just enough that Fai feels his lips part in anticipation of a kiss.

Something sharp flares in Kurogane’s eyes, a bright-hot gleam Fai can’t make sense of; and abruptly the warm hand that holds his face is gone, grabbing for the neck of the bottle that rests forgotten on the counter. Kurogane’s fingers are uncharacteristically clumsy where they grip its fluted neck, the bottle scraping softly across wood as he drags it off the bench, and there is a desperation in how the glass mouth of the bottle meets his own as Kurogane tips it up, up and drains the last of its contents with an urgency beyond thirst. A thin line of liquor trickles past his lips, wets his chin and drips to his chest in gleaming gilded droplets, and the heavy working of Kurogane’s throat looks almost painful where he swallows.

It’s not long before he’s done, before there’s nothing left to drink, and the gasp that escapes when Kurogane lets the bottle down at last is the sound of a drowning man desperate for air. “I need a bath,” he mutters, dropping his hand; the neck of the bottle slips through his fingers, just barely caught between his fingertips and swinging gently in his hold. “And then I’m going to bed.” His mouth is still wet; his eyes hooded, dark. “And you…” Kurogane trails off, softly, a crackle in his voice that Fai has never heard before, one that makes his heart thump heavy in his ribs. “You can make up your own damn mind about whether you join me.”

Kurogane drops a clean towel from the counter in Fai’s lap before he leaves, shirt and coat slung heavy over one bare shoulder, his steps heavy but soundless; Fai’s hands twist in the terry cloth, fingers trembling. It would be _so easy_ to step to his feet– to find his cane and follow, to take the invitation and the offer from before, trail Kurogane down the hall; to find him in the steam of the bath and kiss the ghost of liquor from that clever, clever mouth. Easier still to follow him to bed, to soft sheets and the shadowed darkness of a room where they could do what they please without the judgement of the light. (Easy enough, still, to pretend it never happened in the morning; he’s already gone so far, and what’s a little more, besides?)

And Fai wants to. He knows better and he still _wants_ to, and the choice is wholly his to make, and _that_ is why it’s so _fucking hard_.

Slowly, Fai eases himself down from the countertop. Beneath bare feet the tile is cool, stone slightly gritty and just barely slick from stray droplets of liquor where they spilled– and in one or two places, a little bit of blood. He’ll need to clean that, in the morning, but for now it’s too far away to think about. Fai straightens his clothes with trembling fingers, stands on shaking legs as he steps gingerly into his trousers once more, and resting his weight carefully on an ankle that throbs in warm reminder of just how dangerous Outo really is, reaches for his cane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I listened to the most while writing this was 'Do I Wanna Know' by the Artic Monkeys; to me, the heavy, pounding beat and the yearning baseline underscored everything in this scene.


End file.
